


If you fall

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Justice League (2017)
Genre: Accidential identity reveal, Angst, Bruce DID NOT plan for it to happen like this, Bruce and Clark are best friends, Bruce gets hurt during a mission, Canon Divergence: Justice League (2017), Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I haven't used Intergang for a plot in a hot minute, I love Martha and Bruce interacting... it's so fun to write, I make up weird quirks for all the billionaires to have, Identity Reveal, Intergang, Post-Canon, So here they are, but just about what kinds of breakfast food they like/don't like, cursing, or they will be eventually after a certian someone opens up, slightly AU, slightly fix-it, tw: mentions of blood, we all know who comes to the rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: I will catch you.Bruce and Clark have moved past their earlier misunderstandings, and it has now been almost a year since the Justice League first started working together. Batman is slowly starting to trust his colleagues, and he's even thinking about (maybe, eventually) revealing his civilian identity to them. But certain events speed that process up, and all of Batman's plans suddenly go out the window.Or: Bruce gets stabbed, Clark panics, and that is how Bruce Wayne ends up meeting Martha Kent. Superman'smother.





	If you fall

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly AU. I pictured some of the animosity of BvS to still have happened, but instead of, you know, trying to _kill_ each other, Bruce and Clark wise up to what Luthor's real goal was. After that, things pretty much resume happening according to the movieverse timeline— except with less animosity between them... mostly. 
> 
> TW: mentions of blood/stab wounds. Kind of graphic, but it's over pretty quickly and most of the descriptions in this are of Bruce's pain after getting stabbed. 
> 
> Title/part of the description shamelessly stolen from the song, “Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper.

They’ve been working together for about a year now as part of the league— the _Justice League_ (not Bruce’s idea of a good team name). Batman has known Superman for longer than that (if he counts the time that he’d merely been _keeping tabs _on the alien, that is). The league still hasn’t officially disclosed their civilian identities to each other; some people have made theirs a more-or-less open secret, though.

It’s not that he _distrusts _the man of steel— Bruce would have never aborted his original plans otherwise— or the league… _but_. But it’s only been a year, and that— Bruce _can’t_ make himself open up quite that much yet. Batman cannot quite imagine chipping away at his solitude, after so long, either. He will though, eventually, if everything continues to go well. Besides, Superman, and the league, are being perfectly patient. If they’re willing to wait, well… Bruce isn’t going to press the matter. In fact, this is preferable.

So he’s distinctly **pissed** when he gets stabbed.

It’s Intergang, and they’re in Metropolis. Bruce and the rest of the league wouldn’t even be here if Intergang hadn’t somehow gotten their hands on alien tech, including,_ namely_, kryptonite. In the immediate aftermath of Luthor’s swift and total defeat, Bruce had, unfortunately, not been able to keep track of all of his assets. Some of Lexcorp’s _research _had leaked. It was that research, Bruce suspected, that was behind their current problem.

Still, as far as existential threats go— the league is more than enough to handle Intergang. Even with their stolen alien laser cannons. Those are interesting, for a while, until Bruce figures out that his EMP device works on them. But there are still a lot of men, with regular guns too. And the EMP isn’t enough to take out all the cannons at once. So they still have work to do. Superman and Wonder Woman work on rescue efforts and damage control. Flash is working on clean up, and Cyborg is keeping an eye on site security. Arthur’s helping Diana clear people from the nearby buildings. Bruce is engaged in a fight with a gang member, and things are going in his favor.

Sure, Batman is a little tired, but the other guy’s just got a knife. Intergang doesn’t particularly care about their members’ hand-to-hand combat abilities, either. The other man clearly hasn’t had all the martial arts training that Batman has had. So it’s really just dumb luck on his part— and carelessness on Bruce’s— that lets him hit the mark.

Bruce is about to deliver a punishing hit to his opponent’s jaw when he hears the distinctive whine of a cannon being primed. Batman has just a second to dart sideways (he feels the heat of the blast blaze past his jaw) and that is enough. The gang member takes the opportunity to lunge forward and jab his knife at the Batsuit. Bruce, instinctually, tries to dodge. For a brief second, however, he doesn’t feel too worried; the suit is Kevlar, and has withstood gunfire. And then— he gets stabbed. _Of course_, Bruce thinks dully, _why wouldn’t they have enhanced other weapons besides the cannons? Easier to traffic that way_.

Bruce feels pressed inside his body like, like— a butterfly pinned against a display board. The sensory input from the world suddenly feels too _immediate_, too _demanding_, and there’s a constant zing of pain running through his side as the wound throbs and pulses in time with his heartbeat. Bruce starts to feel the slick wet warmth of blood spreading within the suit. The gang member glances at him, appearing confused as to why Batman hasn’t done the _sensible_ thing and fallen over yet. He takes off.

Bruce growls in a mixture of pain and displeasure. He places a firm hand over the wound— at least what he can reach of it with the _knife _still sticking out of him— and takes a half step forward. Where he’s going, Bruce isn’t sure. Maybe to find a dark corner to take cover in. Maybe to tell Diana that he really needs to go _right now_. Maybe to pull the knife out himself, do a quick field bandaging (which he’s done before), and then get back to work.

Wherever Batman had intended to go, he doesn’t reach it. Bruce’s small movement pulls on the knife, and expulses more blood from the stab wound. The hot, sanguine liquid leaks from the wound on to the _outside _of the suit; never a good thing, given the compressing abilities of the under suit. A few drops splatter on the ground. Bruce is feeling clammy, and a bit off-balance. _He needs to act now_.

“Batman!” Bruce starts. Superman has landed next to him; Superman is the one calling out to Batman. He is looking worriedly at Bruce— or perhaps at _the knife_ that is still sticking out of his side. Bruce absently clutches his wound, but blood is still dripping between his fingers at an alarming rate, and his gloves are losing traction (or maybe it’s the _strength_ in his gloved hands which is failing). His lower abdomen also feels distinctly squishy, and moist. The sharp, vibrating pain seems eternal. Bruce is definitely hurt, but he’s also had _worse_.

“I’m f—” Batman starts to say before his knees buckle and he is falling into blackness.

**…**

Bruce wakes to throbbing agony. Every breath brings a steady attack on his senses, and it feels like he has a second pulse in his abdomen. Even the slightest muscular twitch tugs on the wound in a way that makes it seem like he’s being branded. Bruce also feels cold, dry-mouthed, and dizzy— symptoms of blood loss. But that doesn’t matter because he is lying bare-chested in an unfamiliar bed. More _concerningly_, Bruce is lying here without the cowl; the soft pillow is pressed unnervingly against his bare cheek, the back of his head.

He sits up, and has to bite down on his bottom lip to avoid groaning. The movement brings his pain to a sharp crescendo— as if lava or lightning had suddenly filled his nerve endings. For a moment, dim spots mar his vision. Bruce blinks them away, and glances down at the thick bandages wrapped low around his torso: they’re white, which is a good sign. He scoots to the edge of the bed, hissing, and manages to stand.

Bruce pushes past the pain— he needs to at the very least determine if he _is_ in friendly territory. The last thing he remembers, reassuringly, is Superman’s concerned voice calling out his name, but this is not definitive proof. Gritting his teeth makes the prospect of walking less daunting. After a final preparatory breath, Bruce takes a step. Sudden faintness overwhelms him, and then he’s falling—

“Woah, easy there.”

Bruce blinks. He slowly registers the feeling of soft fabric, and the warm presence of the body beneath it; though the person he’s suddenly collapsed against isn’t, in reality, particularly _soft_. As his head clears, two more things become apparent. Bruce is more-or-less being held bridal-style by his rescuer, currently kneeling on the ground, as if he’d plucked Bruce from the air. There aren’t a lot of people who can _lift_ Bruce— there is only _one_ who can catch him mid-fall (twice).

For a moment, Bruce stares up at the man in the plaid shirt, black glasses, and blue jeans. The only thing that comes to mind is:_ well, this is unexpected_. “Superman,” he says, much more calmly then he’s feeling. “Where are we?”

The man— Superman— blinks. But he doesn’t deny the truth. _Only fair_, Bruce muses, feeling unsettled, _since **he’s **seen **my **face too_. Bruce recalls that he’s shirtless, and the position suddenly feels even more uncomfortable. He squirms deliberately. Superman places a warm, firm hand on Bruce’s shoulder. That, and the sudden spike in his pain, are enough to quell Bruce’s small protest. He takes a breath, and swallows down the faint nausea.

During this time, without his notice, they’ve moved across the small room— a _childhood_ room, Bruce realizes— and back to the bed. With far more care than he thinks is appropriate (for the well-being of his pride), Bruce is propped up against the pillows. He scowls. Superman, this _stranger_ in glasses and country-casual clothing, practically vibrates from discomfort. He stands a few feet away from the bed, silently. Bruce starts to scowl as he resists the sudden impulse to hike the sheets over his chest; it would make no difference in present company anyway.

“I didn't know where to take you, if you even _have _someone for things like this, so I brought you here because I was wo—” Superman starts to say.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” Bruce asks, interrupting. He does not offer his; the man in front of him shouldn’t need him to say it. There is a reason Bruce had been so <strike>terrified</strike> reluctant to share his identity with the league. Superman blinks.

“Oh! I— er, my name’s Clark. Clark Kent. And you’re—” Bruce grimaces. In a flash, Clark is hovering by his side. He thinks Bruce is in _pain_. Well he _is_, but, for now, that kind of pain is unimportant.

“Stop hovering,” he growls. Sheepishly, Superman— _Clark_— complies. Though he only takes one, small step back. Hmph. The room is blanketed in a heavy, awkward silence. Clark is… not quite gaping, but _looking _intently enough at him for the attention to be more-than-disconcerting. Bruce starts to sigh, then thinks better of it. “Out with it,” he snaps. _God, it’s been a while since he’s been stabbed_. _This is not how he’d planned it_.

Slowly, Clark walks to the edge of the bed and sits. Bruce resolutely does not pull his feet closer to his body. “I’m…” Super— **Clark** states awkwardly, “a little surprised. That you’re, you know, _you_.” Bruce groans at this less-than-enlightened statement.

Superman, of course, darts to his side to offer assistance. Because the alien assumes that he, _Batman_, needs assistance. This rankles Bruce (and his pride) quite a lot, and he finds his temper spiking dangerously. The Kryptonian’s hand is now pressed gently against Bruce’s side, just above the bandage. “Oh my god,” Bruce barks, “would you _get the fuck off_ _me_. I’m fine, Supe— Clark.”

There is a soft throat-clearing from the door. Clark, looking half-scandalized, half-furious (and _that _particular look is reassuringly all Superman’s) jerks back. Bruce sucks in a breath, and turns his gaze to the door. In it stands a woman, slightly younger than Alfred. She’s wearing a beat-up pair of blue jeans, socks, and a button-down. Her hair is tied up, and her face looks like it could be stern, but the laugh lines soften it.

“Ma,” Clark says. Bruce honestly can’t tell _what _the tone is behind that simple greeting. For a fleeting millisecond, he feels as if he’s been stabbed anew; _Superman, who he believed to be an orphan <strike>like **him**</strike> too, has a mother_.

The woman turns her slightly-exasperated gaze on Clark, and then she looks at Bruce. He’s never been shy about showing off his body, but in that moment, Bruce dearly, dearly wishes he weren’t half-naked. What a great first impression he must be making. “I’m glad to see you’re up. I’m sorry if Clark’s been bothering ya’,” she says. “He gets worried sometimes… Mr. Wayne? Batman?”

“Bruce,” Bruce corrects. He glares at Clark. “That he does, Mrs.—”

“Kent,” she says, offering Bruce an eye-crinkling smile. “But you can call me Martha.” Bruce thinks it’s unfair for him to get stabbed _three times_ in one day. It’s a good thing that they can only see the physical wounds. Bruce swallows, as Clark tenses minutely next to him. Thankfully, he says nothing.

Bruce offers a— not _fake _smile, but perhaps, not an entirely heart-felt one either. “Well,” he says, “it’s an honor to meet you, Martha.” He doesn’t stumble over the name. She smiles back like she hears it anyway.

In a swift, but appreciated, subject shift, she asks, “You’re not hungry, are you?”

Bruce hesitates. _He’s starving_. “A little,” he replies.

**…**

Another reason that Bruce was reluctant to share who he was under the mask is: once there’s a _face_ to the name, people feel like they have more of a right to be _unreasonably worried _about you. “No. You are _not _carrying me down the stairs,” Bruce hisses, horrified.

He’d made it down the hall by leaning heavily against Clark’s side (Bruce glared at him behind his mother’s back until Superman had stopped sneakily trying to pick him up). But now Clark is hovering threateningly in front of him. And he’s got that stubborn frown in place— the one that usually only comes out when Luthor’s involved. Thankfully, Mrs. Kent is already halfway down the stairs, and reasonably out of earshot. She won’t have to hear them argue.

“_Bruce_,” Clark says, as if he’s said it a million times before, “come on. Stop being such a stubborn bast—” he glances quickly down the stairs, to gauge where his mother is “_bastard_.” Bruce blinks for a moment, and a laugh escapes him. _Superman cursing will never not be funny_. Then he groans. And this time, the pain isn’t emotional.

Clark is by his side in an instant. One presumptuous hand is pressed against his elbow. The other is at his lower back. “Fine, you incessantly pushy prick,” Bruce mutters. Clark hums beside him, not sounding perturbed by the name-calling in the slightest. He gently lifts Bruce off the ground, and languidly makes his way down the stairs. Bruce, in his arms, does _not _pout.

Their destination, apparently, is the small but homey kitchen. Martha— Mrs. Kent— is standing in front of the stove top, finishing up the hash browns. She’s got a plate of eggs and a platter of sausages under glass lids. The smell is enough to make Bruce’s abdominal muscles cramp in a very painful way. His stomach makes an embarrassingly loud rumble. Superman makes no comment.

Bruce clears his throat. Without preamble, he asks, “What did you do with my suit?”

The answer, apparently, is stuff it in the hallway closet, inside of a duffle bag. Clark fetches the bag and hands it to Bruce, who places it on his lap. He’s got the zipper open, and is about to fish through the loose components, when Mrs. Kent says, politely, but firmly, “Not at the island, please.” Bruce flushes. _Right. The suit’s not exactly clean_…

“Sorry,” he mumbles. Bruce barely has time to turn around before Clark is at his side, helping him to the kitchen table. He doesn’t try to carry Bruce this time.

“One sec,” Superman says, disappearing. A moment later, he’s back with yesterday’s newspaper— an edition of _The Daily Planet_. Oh. Clark spreads it out on the table, and nods at his work. “There you go,” he says cheerfully. He takes a seat across from Bruce, who diverts his attention back to the bag.

He plunks various disassembled pieces of the suit onto the newspaper-covered table. Some of them are coated in drying blood. Others aren’t, but are still grimy, or sweaty. Bruce is briefly very, very thankful that Martha had been practical enough to stop him. He would’ve been _mortified _if he’d gotten blood all over Superman’s mother’s kitchen. Curiously, Bruce also notes how _intact _the components of his suit appear to be. He glances questioningly up at Clark, who has, apparently, been watching his progress.

“X-ray,” Superman says, tapping his temple. Bruce nods.

Finally, he reaches the belt. Muttering unsavory things under his breath, Bruce starts tinkering with it in what looks like (to Clark) a very _deliberate _manner. After a moment, he sits back, and relaxes. “What would’ve happened if that didn’t go right?” Clark asks, unable to help himself.

Bruce scowls at the belt. “I would’ve flooded your mother’s house with teargas.” Clark jerks back in alarm.

Ignoring him, Bruce pops open a particular pouch and withdraws a cellphone. He types in a password and then presses the screen again. He holds the phone up to his ear. Clark hears it ring. Then he hears the cross-sounding voice of an older English man. Bruce actually looks chastened, upon hearing it. Personally, Clark doesn’t blame him.

“I’m _fine_, Alfred,” Bruce mutters, after a minute. He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m with Superman— actually, I’m at his mother’s house.” Bruce holds the phone away from his ear, and rolls his eyes at Clark, and Martha, who are both less-than-subtly listening in. “Alfred says to say, ‘thank you,’ for him. He’s my butler,” Bruce explains nonchalantly. Clark stifles a surprised laugh. Bruce holds the phone up to his ear again. He falls silent for a moment. “I don’t know, Al. Sometime later today? I— yes, I’ll let you know. Bye.” Clark snorts. Bruce glares, unamused.

Martha chooses that moment to intervene. Or perhaps she just has _exceptionally_ good timing. Bruce isn’t sure which to think, what with her being Superman’s mother. “Here, boys, have some breakfast. Bruce, I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I hope this is good enough.”

Bruce smiles stiffly at her. “I can assure you that the average American billionaire still enjoys breakfast food,” he replies dryly. Martha smiles politely at his attempt at sociability.

Clark snorts again. Bruce, after serving himself, raises an eyebrow at Clark. “That implies that there are _unusual _billionaires,” the other man explains.

Bruce smirks. “There are. Lex Luthor, for one.”

“I should have known. Tell me your secret knowledge, Batman.”

“Waffles. He hates waffles. I found that out the last time we had a morning meeting, in Metropolis.”

“Huh… that’s unexpected.” 

“Mm. Oliver Queen drinks pumpkin spice lattes year-round.”

“Well, that’s unusual, I suppose. But it’s not a crime.”

“Simon Stagg will only eat eggs if they’re hardboiled.”

“Okay THAT is weird…. Why do you know all this?”

“I can’t exactly turn off my observational skills, Superman.”

“Touché. Well, if I ever have to write a feature with weird-facts-about-billionaires as a central component, I’ll know who to talk to.”

**…**

Bruce frowns suddenly, and looks into his empty cup of coffee. They’ve moved into the living room. Martha has excused herself, stating that she has chores to do. Bruce had offered to help wash up, but both Clark and she protested: “You _literally _just got stabbed!” “No, thank you, Bruce, but I can’t let’cha. You’re a guest here.” It’s now been a few hours since that. Bruce called his plane right after breakfast, but they’re still waiting for it to arrive.

“What?” Clark asks. He recognizes the eerily watchful look Bruce gives him as being all Batman. It is, during this unsettling morning, one of the most normal things to happen.

“You’re a reporter. For _The Daily Planet_, right?” Bruce questions. Clark, hesitantly, nods. Bruce grimaces.

“Yeah, why? You don’t like reporters?” Clark asks.

Bruce smiles. The expression somehow still manages to make his face look grim. “No. Not particularly.” They both think of several… interesting articles about and photographs of Bruce Wayne that have been published. Yeah, Clark can’t exactly blame him… Still though, this—

“Doesn’t _change_ anything,” Bruce mutters. Gone, abruptly, is the friendly (if slightly distant) persona that had appeared at the breakfast table earlier. Because, Clark recognizes now, _that’s _what it had been. He’s more than a little disappointed by this.

“Doesn’t it though? I mean, maybe not, like, in civvies, but—”

“I work alone,” Bruce interrupts. He twists, grimacing slightly at the movement, to give Clark a full on stare (he’s now wearing a borrowed t-shirt, so it isn’t totally awkward). “And the rest of the league don’t need to know.” Clark gapes at him a moment. _The nerve_… It’s so, so, so—

“Paranoid! Bruce, c’mon. You don’t _have _to work alone anymore. I mean, don’t you want—”

Bruce sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t change anything, Clark. Batman is… is— I’m not **ready**, alright? I don’t want anyone in the league to- to _change _their opinion of me.”

Clark goes still. _That’s not what he was expecting to hear_. From Bruce’s expression, it’s not what he expected to say, either. They’re both silent for a moment. But Clark recovers. “Oh. Well. I’m sure— once people get to know you they won’t judge. I mean, we’ve been working together for a while now; they all know what you can do.”

Bruce gives him an unimpressed look, and Clark’s imagination superimposes the cowl over Bruce’s face. _Huh_. “But they will. People always judge.”

“Does that mean… are _you _judging me?”

“I… I don’t know _what_ I was expecting, but a mild-mannered reporter wasn’t it.”

“Hah! You’re _disappointed_.”

“No. I… I was just—”

“Disappointed by what you saw. I bet you expected someone more powerful.”

“… Perhaps.”

“And yet, here we are. _Talking about it_ like civilized, adult people. You don’t have to tell them now, but—” Clark suddenly hears the whine of a high-tech jet engine: the Batjet. _Damn_. He might’ve been getting somewhere with this argument (not that he often does, with Batman). Bruce’s phone beeps, and he glances down at it, then back up at Clark.

Clark sighs. To break the silence, he says, “Let me go get my Ma. She’ll want to say goodbye before you take off.”

Bruce nods, looking slightly bemused. “Your mother is an interesting woman.” At Clark’s questioning (warning) look, he amends: “I’m glad _she _found you, and not somebody else.” Clark’s happy enough with that answer, so he darts off to find Ma. Bruce remains seated on the couch.

Ma is out in the barn, and she accepts a lift back to the house. By this time, the jet has landed; Clark can barely see it, what with the fancy cloaking and all. It’s parked on the front lawn. “Well, I’ll be,” Ma mutters, impressed.

Bruce, with Clark’s assistance, hobbles out of the house, and faces Martha stiffly. “Thank you for your hospitality. Hopefully when we see each other next it will be under… less dire circumstances.”

Martha snorts. “Yes, hopefully. You take care of yourself now, Bruce, you hear? Don’t let none of those fools in Gotham get to you. And keep watching out for my boy, would ya’? Lord knows somebody’s got to.”

At this, Bruce smiles. A mischievous gleam fills his eyes. “I intend to, Ma’am.” He pivots to face the Kryptonian. “Clark.” Bruce nods at him, then retreats up the gangplank. The jet swallows him. After that, Clark and Martha step back, and the Batjet pulls smoothly into the air, and then gradually disappears from view.

“He’s certainly an _odd_ one, Bruce is,” Martha says decisively, a few minutes later. Clark is about to protest, but Ma shoots him a quelling look. “I said ‘odd,’ not ‘_bad_,’ Clark... I think you should keep him close-by. Never know when you could use a friend like that. Or when he could use you.”

Clark runs a hand through his hair, thinking. He doesn’t say: ‘_We’re not exactly friends, Ma_,’ or, ‘_I don’t know if Batman even **likes** me that much._’ But after today— although these are both _true _statements, Clark finds that he wants to **change** that. Hopefully soon.

“Yeah, Ma. I plan to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here is some info on how to help someone [with a stab wound](https://firstaidforlife.org.uk/help-stabbed-seriously-bleeding/). 
> 
> These are the symptoms of [hybervolemic shock](https://www.webmd.com/a-to-z-guides/hypovolemic-shock#1).


End file.
